Years after we had the sequel. The baron, a poor young nobleman, had come into a little money. He thought to make it breed. He had an equally poor Scotch cousin, who undertook to play hostess. Both the Duchess and the Countess were his kinswomen. How could such a ménage last? He lost his all. What became of our fellow-lodgers I never learned, but the venture coming to naught, the last I heard of the beautiful high-bred lady manager, she was serving as a stewardess on an ocean liner. Nothing, however, could exceed the luxury, the felicity and the good company of those memorable three months _chez l’Avenue de Courcelles, Pare Monceau_. We never tried a _pension_ again. We chose a delightful hotel in the Rue de Castiglione off the Rue de Rivoli, and remained there as fixtures until we were reckoned the oldest inhabitants. But we never deserted the dear old Boeuf à la Mode, which we lived to see one of the most flourishing and popular places in Paris. II In the old days there was a little hotel on the Rue Dannou, midway between the Rue de la Paix and what later along became the Avenue de l’Opéra, called the Hôtel d’Orient. It was conducted by a certain Madame Hougenin, whose family had held the lease for more than a hundred years, and was typical of what the comfort-seeking visitor, somewhat initiate, might find before the modern tourist onrush overflowed all bounds and effaced the ancient landmarks—or should I say townmarks?—making a resort instead of a home of the gay French capital. The d’Orient was delightfully comfortable and fabulously cheap. The wayfarer entered a darksome passage that led to an inner court. There were on the four sides of this seven or eight stories pierced by many windows. There was never a lift, or what we Americans call an elevator. If you wanted to go up you walked up; and after dark your single illuminant was candlelight. The service could hardly be recommended, but cleanliness herself could find no fault with the beds and bedding; nor any queer people about; changeless; as still and stationary as a nook in the Rockies. A young girl might dwell there year in and year out in perfect safety—many young girls did so—madame a kind of duenna. The food—for it was a _pension_—was all a gourmet could desire. And the wine! I was lunching with an old Parisian friend. “What do you think of this vintage?” says he. “Very good,” I answered. “Come and dine with me to-morrow and I will give you the mate to it.” “What—at the d’Orient?” “Yes, at the d’Orient.” “Preposterous!” Nevertheless, he came. When the wine was poured out he took a sip. “By ——!” he exclaimed. “That is good, isn’t it? I wonder where they got it? And how?”